The Doctor and the Acrobat
by Dashiell Mirai
Summary: Only days after Gallifrey fell, the Doctor finds himself falling back into an old habit: saving people.
1. The Acrobat

The junction was like a stadium, wide and high-ceilinged.

Sunlight filtered in from windows in the top, made bright grey by the years of grime that had accumulated on the glass. Motes of dust danced in the silent emptiness.

The track that ran through the junction created a deep, L-shaped ditch, cradling a platform in its bend. It ran on like a river, meandering, splitting, merging, going in and out of the dark. Perhaps it even ran to the surface. Who knows?

The heart of the network lay far behind, but the junction was like its memory. On the dust-covered walls were pictures: legends, stories, hopes and dreams of the people living in the world outside.

The artists were elusive, if they existed at all. But no one asked questions. The paintings would simply... appear, disturbing nothing in the new place they found themselves in. They grew out from beneath the vines and dust, seeming at once vivid and bright, but also like they had been there for years, like they belonged.

The paintings were each distinct, but shared threads with the ones adjacent. High up on one far wall, there was a large, spanning mural, pulling threads from all the others. It was a massive, golden, sun, with white-daubed clouds swirling around. It sat, jewel-like, in a setting of bright, sky-blue, that slowly gave way to bright grey concrete. _It's not a sun_ , whispered a hundred little insistent letters.

And high above the dust of the platform, undisturbed for years untold, came the sound of quietly whirring servos. It was the sound as familiar to these old walls as dust and sunlight.

He had many names: Prototype 47, The Custodian, Obscura, and The Acrobat, to name a few. The Acrobat was part of the junction, and no one ever questioned that. Not that anyone ever would. He was there, wearing tracks in the ceiling, as he always had been.

He moved along a network of rails, just like the trains that had once glided through this junction did. An open track spanned the ceiling, and he hung from a motorised rig. Thick cables hung from the rig, and fit into a metal band that fit tightly about his waist.

It was sure that if the Acrobat were to be among those on the ground, he would stand out. Not all in a good way.

For one, he hadn't the first clue how to walk. For two, he could not, no matter how hard he tried, remember talking to another person. He couldn't even remember how he knew there were other people.

And on the other hand, we have his appearance. He was not impossibly, but improbably tall and thin, with a lithe build, much like a greyhound. His skin was sallow as milk, but his hair was dark, and hung down past his waist. He was dressed in a simple black tunic, and leggings. All of his clothing was tight-fitting, befitting his lifestyle, but, despite its neatness, its color faded into dark grey.

Besides the reasonably-unkempt tresses that hung off his head, he was largely hairless, possessing both no need and no means to shave. His features were slim and refined, like the rest of him, with high cheekbones, an upswept jaw, and a diamond-tip nose. His eyes were set at an elegant angle, and were dark black, from corner to corner.

Those eyes watched over the junction with an ever-present glint in them. The Acrobat loved his work. It wasn't even work, per se, but his daily life. He was to watch over the junction, and watch over the paintings. He wasn't sure how he knew that. He had just known it, ever since he could remember.

He just hung there, tracing patterns in the ceiling tracks, and picking out new details in the paintings, ever since he could recall. And life was good. Life had been the same, and it was peaceful.

He had ways of making it fun, things to do. Mostly in his head. He would make hypothetical puzzles, little mathematical thought-experiments, to pass the time. He would talk to himself, occasionally. Most anyone else in that situation would talk to themself far more often, but the Acrobat was not a particularly talkative person.

And, when he was in need of something a little more exhilarating, there was the cable deployment button. Whoever had put him there, long ago, had been merciful to include that little feature.

Being particularly tired of just thinking, he proceeded to press a little silver button on the metal band that fit about his waist, and the cables that suspended him from the ceiling unfurled into two long skeins of silk, deep and vivid blue like the ocean.

A smile broke out across his face, crinkling the corners of his ebon eyes. He took his legs and wound the silk around them, making the material ripple and sway like the waves made by a storm. Once it was secure, he detached the band, which fell in two halves away from his body. And, like a stray rung in Jacob's Ladder, he let himself drop.

He stopped himself at the end with a jolt, the ends of the skeins wound tightly around his ankles. There he hung, the ends of his hair barely above the dust-carpeted floor. Shifting his weight in just the right ways, he caught hold of momentum and began to swing himself through the massive, open space.

Despite himself, the Acrobat let out a peal of giddy laughter. He had learned to not let things get old, but this? This needed no effort. Chest heaving with exertion and exhilaration, he let himself slow, momentum carrying him in diminishing spirals until he came to rest in the center of his castle. He felt the dull press of blood rushing to his head, and, with practiced ease, bent to right himself.

The silks snapped into place, and he was balancing between the skeins, ankles and wrists secured by soft, strong ocean-blue. He worked his way back up to the ceiling, letting the smile drain out of him, replaced by calm and satisfaction.

Pressing down the catch, he joined the two halves of the band together, and fastened it about his waist once again. At a command spoken not aloud, but in his mind, the silks were sucked back up into the ceiling like water falling in reverse.

With a sigh, the Acrobat hung back in his harness, and smiled.


	2. Zai

The Acrobat had many things that set him apart from other people. One of those things, however, was not the ability to go without sleep.

He slept when he was tired, but most often, that happened shortly after the bright grey light from the surface turned to dark blue, then to an inky blackness. It was on a night like any other that he allowed his eyes to shut softly.

But the morning was anything but ordinary.

His eyes snapped open, the result of a nightmare he couldn't recall. Filling his field of vision was a sight he'd never seen before: another person.

She had close-cropped black hair, and was certainly shorter than him, but not by much. She had tanned skin, and wore red lipstick around her calculated sneer. A sharply-penciled wing of kohl framed pupils of gunmetal-grey. She hung from a matching rig, not a metre away from him.

His expression flitted from surprised, to defensive, to concerned, before eventually settling on confused. "Who are-", he began, his voice whispery and low.

Leaning forwards, she placed a black-gloved finger across his lips. "I am Zai," she said, her voice echoing out into the dark light of early, early morning. The junction seemed to bristle at the unfamiliar sound.

"Zai," he repeated. "How did you get in here? How are you using my tracks? What are you?"

She smirked. "Ah, so many questions. Must you be so prying?"

"I must," he insisted. "I am the guardian of this place. Please explain this to me."

She grabbed the front of his tunic, and drew him close. He cast about in his mind for the rig's controls, and found nothing. Panic began to set in. "What have you done?", he asked, eyes widening to reveal wide ebony marbles.

"Nothing that you need to trouble yourself about," she murmured in his ear as he flinched under her warm breath. He tried his best to recoil from her uncomfortable closeness.

"Stop," he said emphatically, holding her at arm's length. She grabbed his hand with intense strength, bringing him close again. His pulse quickened with fear. "What are you doing?", he asked desperately.

Zai's sneer came back, full force. "This." She flung a hand around the back of his head, and jerked him to her, mashing his lips against hers. He kept himself rigid with fear, not knowing what any of this was. She probed against his closed wall of teeth with her tongue, digging her claw-like nails into his scalp. He kicked and fought, but she only drew them closer, her grip like a vise.

His muscles screaming with effort, he managed to push her away. He gasped in air, and, with shaking hands, pressed the release catch on his band. He ran from her in the only way he knew how: the silks. He dropped away like a diving seabird. Zai's smirk turned into a snarl, and, spiderlike, she scrambled after him.

The Acrobat lost his grip on the silk, sending terror into his pattering heart. Controlling his weight, he caught ahold of the silk in fistfulls, halting his fall. His toes were mere millimetres above the ground. His arms ached from the shock. He looked up, only to see Zai shimmying down the silks, her expression like a lightning storm.

She was a fraction of a metre away from him, when his instincts kicked in. With a strength borne of adrenaline, he swung himself upwards and landed a solid kick. She hissed in pain, stopping her progress. He swung again, this time launching himself higher onto the skeins, wasting no time in scrambling away from Zai. With a snarl more befitting of a wild beast, she started after him.

In his flight, the Acrobat missed one of his footholds, and fell with a jerk to where he dangled by a single arm. In a moment, Zai was perched above him, gripping his arm like a vise. She drew a short obsidian knife from a belt looped about her waist, and held it aloft. "You could have made this easy. You could have been like most men, and simply let me take what I needed," she snarled. Her hazy reflection wavered in the Acrobat's widened eyes.

"I do not understand," he cried. "Why do you want to hurt me?"

She let out an exasperated growl. "Your body contains something I need. To keep living. A chemical, unique to your species." Her expression shifted, and it was her smile that frightened him more. "But you know? You are only the first I have seen here. And you are different. Modified. You are a poor source for what I need."

The smile grew, splitting her face like a gash. "But you will be a good source for entertainment." She climbed down so that she gripped the skein he didn't have a grip on, and pushed off. She hovered in the air at the top of her arc, then came back at him with a vengeance, slashing away deliberately at him. He screamed, holding on for dear life.

She swung at him like a pendulum, slashing and laughing like a wild hyena. The Acrobat's thoughts started to dull. All there was in that moment was the pain, the need for relief, and Zai's laughing face, spattered with his blood.

Wet, hot, red ichor poured out, all over his body, wherever there was sharp, stinging pain. His bloodied arms were locked around the silk, soaked through as it was. He was swallowing bile, his heart beating out of his chest.

On her next pass, Zai halted her momentum, locking a hand around his skein. She planted a kiss on his helpless lips, and whispered, "You are beautiful. Such a pity."

The expanse of darkness all around them seemed alight with hellfire.

Then, with a savage, careless flick of her arm, she slashed the silk. The Acrobat plummeted like a stone, plain unwillingness and unpreparedness to die evident in his eyes. The only thing he felt as he saw the ground was a sharp pain.

And then there was the darkness.


	3. Old Habits

The Acrobat awoke, and for a split second, he was enveloped in the pleasant amnesia that sleep provides.

But without fail, memory and sensation flooded back in, like a sewer canal that had swollen past its banks.

He was cold, so cold. The wounds in his body felt like they cut to his core with thin blades of ice.

He tried to wrap his arms around his body, but stopped short, hissing in pain. His muscle fibres were slashed open, knitting together all wrong.

He managed to crane his neck to look up, and saw the ruins of his rig, his silks. They were marred, lopsided, like a pair of limbs, one amputated violently.

Everything seemed grey, the light, the dust, even the paintings. He had taken care of them for years. Why did they not the care of him? The eyes of the people looked out on him, cold and objective. They had seemed so alive before.

A sob began to claw its way up his throat. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair at all. This was all he'd ever known, all his life had ever been. Why did it have to be torn away, all in one short night, with no hope of recovery? There was no way he could get back up. He'd never even stood on this ground.

Slowly, shudderingly, he began to cry. Tears flowed, hot and saline, from his eyes. He shook, racked with bitter cold and great, shuddering sobs. He cried for what he lost. He cried because he didn't understand. He cried, because he didn't know what else to do. He lay there, caked in dried blood and dust and tears, helpless and unwilling to move.

Suddenly, a noise echoed throughout the junction, a curious screeching and groaning. He tried to draw himself up, his brows drawing together. His heart quickened. Something was appearing by the old platform benches, kicking up dust like a desert sandstorm. He managed to shield his eyes, choking on dust.

When he lowered his arm, the noise had stopped. A worn blue box, about three metres tall, stood in the corner. If it weren't for the spray of dust cleared by it, it looked as if it could easily have always been there. There were signs around the top, proclaiming it to be a "Police Box".

The Acrobat's expression turned again to desperate confusion. What if it was someone else, come to hurt him? It wasn't an unreasonable conclusion.

And, right on cue, the door opened, and out stepped a man. He was plain enough in appearance, with dark pants and a dark jacket over a plum shirt, pale-ish skin with close-cropped dark hair. He had a prominent bone structure, with a gaunt jaw and strong nose. But his gait betrayed his strangeness. He moved quickly, deliberately, with an odd grace.

The Acrobat watched him with bated breath, as he caught sight of him. The strange man's eyes lit up with curious concern, and he jogged towards the Acrobat.

"Did she hurt you?", he asked, pulling a strange metal rod from within his jacket.

"The one called Zai hurt me," breathed the Acrobat by way of response.

"It looks like you've been attacked by a very vicious enemy. They're called the Kon-Falra. Particularly nasty, especially if you're got loads of iron in your blood, metabolised just the way they like. Try not to move," said the man, passing the metal rod over him. It emitted a blue light, and a strange whirring noise.

"I cannot move, in any case."

"Why not? You've got legs. Perfectly good legs, give or take the wounds,", he said, looking up from his device.

"I... have never walked. Or even stood." He pointed to the ruins of his rig with a shaking hand. "There. I lived there. All my life." He began to cry again.

"Hey," murmured the man, his tone softening. "Hey, don't cry. Don't cry. Doesn't get much done, crying."

"What can I do but cry?", said the Acrobat, swallowing past the painful lump in his throat.

"I'll tell you what you can do, yeah? Sit up," he said, guiding his hands under his back. The Acrobat began to sit up, with the help of the strange man's hands, solid and supporting under him. He put a hand out on the dust-covered ground to prop himself up.

"There," said the strange man. "That wasn't so bad." Gulping, the Acrobat nodded. "What's your name? Er, I'm the Doctor, by the way," he said, placing a hand on his chest.

"I am the Acrobat," he said plainly.

A smile, a genuine one, made its way across the Doctor's face. "The Doctor and the Acrobat. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think. The Doctor and the Acrobat..." He trailed off, his point of focus having drifted somewhere near the ceiling. "Fantastic."

He jerked his focus back down to earth. "Well, Acrobat, I hope you feel in the mood for a change of scenery," he said, his eyes brightening.

"It has already changed quite a bit," said the Acrobat, mustering what might have passed as a sarcastic smile in someone's book.

The Doctor, gently as he could, slipped an arm under the Acrobat's shoulder. "Alright. Three, two, one, hup!" He drew in a sharp intake of breath, feeling every lancing pain as it shot through his limbs.

"Easy, easy," assured the Doctor. "One foot in front of another. Think you can manage?" Swallowing hard, the Acrobat nodded.

Supported by the Doctor, he began to walk, as if on a tightrope. One foot followed another, followed another, followed another.

A strained, yet almost beatific smile stretched across the Acrobat's face, making slitted dimples. "I am walking!", he exclaimed, glancing sporadically over at the Doctor.

"Yeah! Yeah, you are! Congratulations," he affirmed, smiling back.

They stepped over the threshold of the TARDIS together, two broken men on their way to heal.


End file.
